by Diane Capri
In the living room, Jess found three more baby bottles, the first two were on the window ledge behind the drapes. The last one was on the floor under a crumpled sweater. Each bottle contained ash and cigarette butts. She bagged all three.
Behind the sofa, she found a phone charger. She held it up. “No-name brand with an odd shaped connector. Must be a burner.” She turned it over. The plastic was faded from the heat of being used. “And an old one.”
Morris took a photograph of the charger and sent it off for identification.
“There’s no computer. No laptop, no tablet, no nothing,” he said.
“Unless our friend in the BMW took it.”
“Maybe.”
She looked around the wreckage in the room. “But if that was what BMW-man wanted, why all this? I mean, I doubt a laptop was hidden inside the sofa.”
“So, if there was a computer, that wasn’t the only thing he wanted.”
“Or he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. So this was a fishing expedition.”
“Maybe.”
Morris gathered prints from the kitchen appliances and cupboard doors.
Jess righted the coffee table. Underneath were a collection of thick motorcycle magazines. She picked one up. It fell open awkwardly. The central pages had a large square cut out.
She flipped through several of the others, which had been similarly cut. She held one up to show Morris. “Looks like this could have been how he either sold or bought the drugs.”
“Or both.” He nodded, held open a large evidence bag, and Jess dropped in the magazines.
Morris’s phone buzzed. He checked his email.
“The office is still correlating kidnappings against Gotting’s address. However…” He held out the phone.
A police statement was on the display. The date was three years after Peter had been taken. A single mother’s eighteen-month-old was abducted from a third-floor apartment while she collected her mail on the ground floor.
Jess scrolled down. The police investigation concluded the culprit had used a fire escape to exit the side of the building, well away from the main lobby and the mailboxes.
She scrolled back to the top to check the date. “Gotting moved out two weeks earlier. Could have easily kept a key though.”
Jess handed back Morris’s phone. “You think he’s always been like this?”
“Like what?”
Jess rolled her eyes and gestured to the mess on the floor.
Morris pursed his lips in thought. “Probably. The neighbors say he’s never been anything more than a drunk. Why?”
“Because he’s a wreck.” Her skin tingled. Chills ran down her back. “He’s never cared for anything.”
Morris’s shoulders sagged and his eyebrows sank. He knew where Jess’s thoughts were going. “So, if he did take Peter, and any other children…”
She swallowed hard. “This isn’t a good sign for what happened to them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tuesday, November 28
11:05 a.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Hallman awakened with agonizing pain in his neck from sleeping while slumped in the old desk chair. Bright light made its way through filthy windows in the derelict room and shined right in his eyes, from which he assumed it was mid-morning.
He moved his frozen joints slowly, head in one hand, and massaged the stiffness in his neck. When he could hold his head up, he stood and walked circles around the room to get the rest of the kinks out of his muscles. The debris on the floor crunched under his boots.
His stomach growled and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was dehydrated and hungry. But he felt worse than if he’d enjoyed a wild drinking party the night before.
Hallman pushed the idea of food to the back of his mind. He had work to do. He adjusted his coat and hat using the reflection in a broken pane of glass.
Metcalfe had been watching Norell’s house last night, but Hallman’s instincts told him he couldn’t wait any longer for Metcalfe to get out of the way. Metcalfe was up to something. Only one way to find out. Time to deal with Norell.
Hallman checked the street. Nothing much going on out there and certainly nothing alarming. He exited the building and walked a block in the wrong direction before he realized his mistake. He doubled back along a parallel street and headed northwest.
Norell’s street looked the same in the daylight as it had last night. Trees lined the road, few vehicles were visible, and no one walked along the sidewalks. Worse, Metcalfe’s BMW was still there, but he’d moved it a little closer to the Norell house. The darkly tinted windows did the job of shielding the driver from view even in the daylight.
This time, Hallman walked one street over and behind Norell’s house. He saw no walkway across the lawns, and the house had a backyard full of kids. They’d spot him in half a second if he tried to saunter past.
While he studied the situation, looking for a way to get to Norell’s without being noticed, he caught a flash of black in his peripheral vision. An SUV, moving fast. Without thinking, he stepped close to a tree and dropped to one knee, pretending to tie his boot.
The SUV roared past.
Hallman kept his head down, fidgeting with the laces on his boots. As the SUV swept down the street, he risked glancing at the disappearing vehicle. The windows were tinted and the tail lights were distinctive. A BMW. Probably Metcalfe’s, but he couldn’t be sure.
He retraced his steps back to Norell’s street. Metcalfe’s BMW was gone. A mixed blessing. Metcalfe might have had something else to do. Or he’d dispatched Norell and left. Only one way to find out.
Hallman straightened his back and strode purposefully along the sidewalk to Norell’s house. A wrought iron fence ringed the property for decoration, not security. The gate had a latch but no lock. He grinned. Maybe his luck was finally changing.
The house looked unoccupied. The drapes were closed, but he could see light from inside around the edges. If Metcalfe hadn’t killed him, Norell might have left for work already. His wife or children could be home.
The driveway led up to the house. A concrete walkway circled the building. A six-foot white fence that looked like plastic separated the front and rear lawns.
A two-car garage was detached, but a roof covered the walkway to the side of the house. Both garage doors were closed. He couldn’t see inside.
If Metcalfe’s BMW hadn’t sped out a few minutes ago, he might have parked his SUV inside. He could be waiting.
Hallman approached the solid steel front door, his gaze darting from window to window looking for movement but saw none. He pushed the doorbell. A loud buzz sounded inside the house.
No one came to the door. A minute later, he rang again.
After another minute of waiting, he took the concrete path around the house.
Hallman tried the garage’s side door. The handle turned easily, and he stepped inside.
High up on the back wall, narrow windows admitted enough light to reveal two small Mercedes SUVs.
A selection of hand tools hung on a rack on the wall opposite the side door. Hallman homed in on a series of screwdrivers. The eight-inch standard had a thick shaft. Long and strong enough to stab through flesh and muscle, short enough to prevent an opponent from ripping it out of his hand during combat. He took a hammer, too. Just in case.
A door clicked.
He whipped around. No one had entered. He paced to the door, taking care not to knock any of the tools to the floor.
He stood behind the door. He heard noises outside. Something heavy being dragged along the concrete. He adjusted his grip on the screwdriver.
“Is it okay there?” A man’s voice asked. Norell. No question.
“It’ll do,” a woman replied, probably his wife.
Hallman heard footsteps crunching on the walk and then a door closing.
He listened hard, cupping his hand around his ear. After the door closed all right, with a solid thump of the wood
and a spring latch clicked into place, he heard no secondary click to suggest that either Norell had locked the door.
They had either ignored the bell he’d rung at the front door or hadn’t heard it. Since they were talking and behaving normally, Metcalfe was probably not inside the building.
Hallman redoubled his grip on the screwdriver. It was time to pay the Norells a visit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday, November 28
11:30 a.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Jess left Morris and the pair of officers to search Gotting’s apartment and went looking for Pam McGinty.
She spied the leasing agent with a couple of prospective tenants driving a golf cart around the apartment complex. The entire trip wouldn’t take long.
Jess waited near the office until McGinty returned and parked the golf cart in its assigned space out front. The couple asked the last few questions and left.
McGinty approached Jess. “Find out anything else?”
Jess shook her head. “I was wondering if you had his license plate number.”
“Earle’s? Yeah, I should have it. Come on in and I’ll check.” McGinty unlocked the office. She retrieved a wad of papers from a filing cabinet hidden in the pantry. She wrote out a number on a Post-it and handed it to Jess.
Jess looked at the paper. “This is the Audi, right?”
“Definitely. He’s only had one car since he’s been here.”
“Did he come here straight from prison?”
McGinty shrugged. “He made the deposit and hasn’t been any trouble.”
Jess nodded.
She said, “Actually, I felt a little sorry for him because of his limp.”
“He has a limp?” Jess was still struggling to remember Gotting from thirteen years ago.
“Not real bad. Happened in prison. Doesn’t seem to slow him down or anything.”
“The guy who ran out the back didn’t limp.”
“I imagine Earle could run and you wouldn’t see much of a limp.”
Jess thanked McGinty and left.
As soon as she stepped outside, her phone rang. Stephenson’s name appeared on the display.
“Jess,” he said, “No luck on tracing Gotting’s known acquaintances. Seems to be a bit of a loner.”
“None at all?”
“None we can find. Or maybe none who will admit knowing him.” Stephenson paused. “You need me to help in Kansas?”
“I’m good for now. I’m with Morris.”
“Well, let me know if you change your mind. I can get there quickly.”
She thanked him and hung up.
Morris was in the parking lot standing near the police cruiser. The cruiser pulled away as Jess approached.
He smiled. “I sent off about fifty prints. Mostly partials, but there were a few good ones. I did the baby bottles, but there was nothing on them.”
She cocked her head. “I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or not.”
“Hard to know at this point,” he replied.
She handed him Gotting’s license plate number. “Can you run it?”
“The local field office is already collecting background. In fact, I have a set of pictures. Take a look.” Morris forwarded the email to her phone.
Jess examined the images. Gotting was thin. The height chart behind his mug shot showed him at five feet, ten inches tall. Typical male pattern baldness, but he’d had dark hair to match his eyebrows once. Dark brown eyes. His facial expressions suggested a sullen demeanor. Although no one ever looked happy in a mug shot.
She saved the photos and closed the email. “I got more background from McGinty. Gotting limps. Not bad, but noticeable.”
Morris nodded. “The man in the convenience store didn’t limp. Nor did the BMW driver.”
“So we may have a gang.”
“Or they could be unconnected. Either way, why ransack Gotting’s apartment? What were they looking for?”
“And did they find it?” Jess asked. “Can you get a list of Gotting’s associates from Humboldt?”
“We can get whatever information they know. We’ll ask for enemies, too.” He looked at his watch. “You up for chicken and a few questions for the manager?”
Jess nodded. “Questions? My favorite lunch.”
Finger-Lickin’ Fried Chicken was a large yellow and green building with its name written in red neon flashing lights on the roof. Jess suspected it would be visible from space. The moon even.
The overwhelming stench of fried food hit her before she exited the SUV. By the time she was inside the store, she didn’t think she would ever stop smelling of old chicken grease.
The man behind the counter took their request to see the manager without a blink. A woman in slacks and a white top appeared. Her name badge said “Chicky.”
Morris held out his FBI ID and stared at her badge.
She held out her hand. “It’s a joke. Evelyn Benton.”
They shook hands with her and introduced themselves.
Morris asked, “Does Earle Gotting work here?”
Evelyn shook her head. “Used to.”
“You let him go?”
“No. He quit.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“You didn’t ask him about it?”
Evelyn shifted her weight. “No.”
Morris lowered his voice. “Really?”
Evelyn took a deep breath. “This is my one and only restaurant. I don’t have the money to act like the big guys. I try to pay a fair wage and I keep a—”
“Evelyn, we’re just looking for Earle.”
“Right… Well, I didn’t have any proof, but I was beginning to suspect he was doing something with drugs.”
“Something?”
“Selling…them…here.” She put her hands up in front of her. “I know, I know. I should have told someone.”
“What made you think he was selling drugs here?”
“He used to bring in magazines.”
“Motorcycle magazines?”
Her gaze flitted to Morris. “Yeah. He read them, but I caught him selling one, and who buys a used magazine?”
“Did you ever actually see any drugs?”
“No. But he knew I’d seen him, and he quit that afternoon.”
“Has he been around since?”
“No.”
“Did any of your staff know him?” Jess said.
Evelyn shook her head. “Earle was a loner.”
“Did he ever mention any friends? Girlfriend? Family?” Jess said.
“Not to me.”
“Anyone ever come to see him at work?”
“Not that I know.”
“How well did he do the job?”
“No complaints. He just didn’t like to mix, and…”
“He sold drugs.”
“Yeah. I should have been suspicious from the start.”
“Because he’d been in prison.”
“No. Because of his car.”
Jess frowned. “The Audi.”
“Yeah. Most of the people who work for me don’t own a car like that.”
“Like what?”
“Well, expensive. A6. All the bells and whistles.”
“It was an old one, right?”
Evelyn shook her head. “It was filthy dirty, but it was definitely this year’s model.”
Morris was on the phone before he left the counter at Finger Lickin’ Fried Chicken. Jess thanked Evelyn and followed him out. He finished his call as Jess started the Ford’s engine.
“She was right. Audi A6. This year’s model,” Morris read the information from his phone. “He bought the car two days after he was released. According to the tax records fifty-three thousand dollars. Cash.”
Jess said, “Fifty-three thousand for the car and he works at a fast food place. That actually seems like a good fit for a drug dealer. But why did he live in that low-rent pigsty?”
“C
over, most likely. Or perhaps it’s a good place for distribution. Parking lot’s large and close. Easy to get in and out,” Morris said. “But I’d like to know how he got so much cash only a couple of days after he was released from prison. Banks are required to report large cash transactions, but we haven’t turned up any bank accounts or large withdrawals.”
Jess cocked her head. “Where did he buy the car?”
“Private sale.” Morris consulted his phone. “Seller’s listed as some guy named Zander Norell. Lives here in the city. I have an address.”
Jess put the car in gear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, November 28
11:00 a.m.
Rio Grande National Forest
Gunnison, Colorado
Earle Gotting drove west from Colorado Springs, heading toward the Rio Grande National Forest, following his route from memory.
He stopped at a small garage nestled on a staggered junction. A sign above the door read The Orange Mart. Perhaps to reinforce the name, the door was painted vibrant orange.
There were only two pumps, and he had to pay the cashier inside first. His weak right leg was stiff, so he used the short distance to the building to work it out a little. After he filled up the Audi, he went inside again, limping less the second time.
The Orange Mart offered an eclectic mix of food, alcohol, and DIY products. It wouldn’t rival one of the big chains, but for people who lived in the area, it was probably the go-to place.
He found a couple of day-old sandwiches wrapped in cellophane in a fridge. From the same fridge, he took a six-pack of beer and a two-liter bottle of water. On top of the sandwiches, he stacked a loaf of bread and a dozen cans of soda.
In the DIY section, he picked up a portable gas heater with a tiny propane cylinder, a flashlight, and a roll of black duct tape. At the checkout, he bought three pre-paid phones. He didn’t know how his plan was going to work yet, but an anonymous phone was always a good idea for criminal activities.
He paid in cash. The man at the checkout raised his eyebrows at the stack of phones. Gotting shrugged. “Kids. Always losing the things.”
